Chapter 16
Sixteen
Elara
The heavy thud of his heartbeat hummed in her ears. Ashes smoldered in the firepit, early morning sun poking through the smoke hole. The musky scent of cedar and leather clung to the furs as she pressed further into his hold.
He’d returned to her in time for the evening meal, feeding her from his fingers before pulling her back into bed.
“My little flame burns too bright to sleep long,” he rasped, voice thick with slumber.
Soft lips rested atop her messy nest of curls. Puckered skin bounced under her nails as she trailed a long scar bisecting his torso.
A deep, sleep-roughened voice purred above her, his grip tightening around her waist.
“Two years ago. An English merchant captured my sister, planning to make her his bride and force my father’s hand in an alliance.”
Hot breath fanned over her shuddering lips, fogging the taut skin of his sculpted chest. Bile churned in her stomach. She burrowed further into his hold, tracing the scar, imagining the hell he went through to save his sister.
“I earned that mark, fighting with her now soon-to-be husband to steal her back.”
His body pulsed as she nuzzled into his neck. She pressed a sweet kiss to his pulse, smiling when his body tensed. One hand drifted under her shift, stroking her calf. The gentle touch sent a ripple of warmth flooding to her abdomen.
For someone as brutal as Njáll, his tender touches reminded her what he was capable of—destruction and damnation. Even if in the undercurrent of each brush of his fingers whispered unspoken promises of devotion.
“She is lucky to have you,” Elara said, fingers stilling by the hem of his trews. “I am lucky to have you. The draugar are quieter when you hold me. They fear you.”
A puff of air rolled from him and remained silent for a long pause. He leaned back enough to gaze at her properly, loose chocolate hair falling over his shoulders. Her fingers combed through the strands, pushing them off his face.
Rough skin slid under her chin as a bent knuckle tipped her head back. The unguarded adoration in his gaze made her heart stutter.
“Do not diminish your light. It is you they fear.”
The guttural growl of his command made the light within her glow with pride.
She was no warrior. She couldn’t strike an enemy with a sword or defend herself with a shield. Njáll said pretty words to console her, when they both knew no one feared her.
As if hearing her thoughts, he shook his head, his hand sliding higher to bracket her face.
“My father believes you are a practitioner of seier. The most powerful one to exist for Freyja to guard you so fiercely.” Tight creases framed her eyes, and Njáll spoke again. “Magic, little flame. Priestesses and Seeresses. Divine connections with Freyja, capable of bending time and fate.”
Warmth leeched from her limbs, leaving a shivering shell in its wake. Her fingers instantly sought the rune around her neck, tracing the marks.
Harsh breaths stung her chest, stabbing like shards of ice. The edges of her vision blurred as she tried to focus on the one steady thing in her life.
Njáll.
“No. No… I’m not… I can’t. You’re mistaken. I’m not someone wh…”
Even as the protests slipped from her, she knew they were lies. While she’d never been able to name the things she felt and saw, something coalesced within her, growing stronger ever since her mother passed.
Something she stubbornly tried to ignore, pretending it was nothing more than grief-induced hysteria.
The nerves in her body ached. Tiny tremors quaked in her hands as she stared into nothingness.
“Shhh. Do not fear, my brave girl. It is not a curse, but a blessing. Let us get dressed and I will take you to the Volva, an elder in my clan who has practiced seier for longer than my father has been Konungr.”
Her body moved of its own accord while her mind struggled to keep up. She hadn’t even realized she’d agreed to go with Njáll until they stood dressed at the end of a deserted path on the outskirts of the village.
Fingertips rested possessively on her hip, keeping her tucked into his side. He drew small circles there, the simple touch banishing the worst of her worries.
Growing up, people told stories of witches and magic and prophecies, but they weren’t real.
They weren’t supposed to be real.
She tugged at her fingers, toying with a loose thread on her cloak.
They stood in front of a moss-covered dwelling, so different from the rest of the homes sprinkled throughout the village. It was built into the base of a massive stone outcropping, half cave, half wooden structure.
The scent of charred logs and dried herbs mingled with the crisp, dewy morning air.
“Wait here,” Njáll whispered, the command in his voice no less potent.
Njáll’s hand fell to the hilt of his axe despite there being no visible threat. Elara stiffened, pulling the thick tawny fur of her hood closer to her face.
An alarming surge of white noise crackled—both nearby and impossibly far away.
She blinked, her face blank as she felt both comforted and terrified by the growing warmth zipping at her fingertips.
Sticks crunched under his boots as Njáll rapped his knuckles on the heavy oaken door.
After a few silent beats, a short figure emerged from within the cave opening.
“Volva,” Njáll said, his timbre brimming with reverence and respect as he bowed his head.
An ancient woman stared at Elara. Not merely aged, but someone carved from the earth itself. Skin the color of weathered bark peeked out from under her shawl, textured like the roots of the nearby pines.
She was tiny, almost swallowed by the dark fox fur skin she wore. Yet, she radiated immense knowledge. Gnarled fingers gripped the hood shielding her face, sliding it down to reveal unnaturally clear eyes, the color of a pale winter’s dawn.
A faint crackle followed the woman’s deliberate steps.
“Forgive the intrusion, Volva. I have brought my kona to you.”
Kona?
Her gaze snapped to Njáll’s, a faint smile curling into place. Elara made a mental note to ask him later what kona meant.
The woman froze, her gaze sliding past Njáll and landing on Elara. Those knowing eyes pinned her to the spot. The Volva did not blink, stripping past all earthly vestiges, leaving Elara exposed.
Elara’s heart galloped under the woman’s piercing stare.
Despite how she tried to hide it, Elara trembled.
After what felt like an eternity, a serene smile revealed teeth stained by dark herbs. A harsh voice laced with rough breaths flowed from her as she spoke.
“I wondered when you would find me,” she said, the heavily accented words barely discernible. “The scent of seier clings to the wind when you move. Come, little one. Sit by the fire. You shake like a leaf in the wind, yet you carry the strength of winter ice.”
With the request that sounded more like a demand, Elara finally moved, exhaling when Njáll’s hand found the small of her back. Njáll ducked as they moved inside, avoiding the low hanging beam.
Dozens of tallow candles lined the walls, casting a yellow glow along the lichen stone surrounding them.
Elara’s legs curled under her as she sat on a bearskin fur by the fire. Njáll curled around her protectively from behind as the Volva slowly lowered herself onto a stool opposite them, the wood groaning beneath her.
A gravelly whisper rasped over the stone.
“Your gift pours from you, child. Untamed and brimming with light. Your seier commands you. More formidable than anything I have ever witnessed. You must learn to control it.”
Sweat coated her palms, and Elara brushed them on her wool dress. The beads in her braids jingled as she shook her head, trying to comprehend what this woman said.
It splintered the last dregs of her resistance, leaving her a broken thing in its wake. Elara withdrew, not knowing who she was anymore—questioning if she had ever known herself at all.
Sensing her drifting, Njáll took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. Soft lips brushed the underside of her jaw, thawing the shards of ice encasing her heart.
“I am here, little flame. Do not retreat.”
Lips twitched with amusement as the Volva watched the exchange, her shoulders falling with a quiet hum.
“Good. Your mate knows his duty. She needs an anchor, Jarl. Freyja has entrusted you to protect her chosen.”
Her grip on Njáll’s hand squeezed tighter, and the scruff of his jaw burrowed into her smooth cheek.
“Whatever she needs, I will provide,” Njáll said, unwavering devotion seeping from his steely confession.
The Volva nodded; her eyes glittered as she leaned closer. Sparks sputtered from the fire, punctuating the silence.
“The veil thins as your power grows, child. The draugar are becoming desperate, thirsting for a taste of the lives they no longer have. They are like starving hounds, begging for scraps from their master’s table.
And their master, Hel, may set them loose from their chains to wreak havoc on this world. ”
Her heart tumbled, a sickening knot clenching in her stomach. Heat withdrew from her fingers, leaving them numb. Instinctively, Elara fell back into Njáll’s hard body.
Everything suddenly felt too fragile. And somehow, she was the cause. The hunger of the dead feasted because she gave them a bridge to cross.
“Unleashed emotions feed the seier. Your grief. Your love. Your acceptance. It emboldens your gift. Do not fear what Freyja has given you.”
Wrinkled fingers reached out, taking Elara’s slender wrist in her steady hand. The pad of her thumb touched the faint blue veins visible beneath the thin skin there.
A stinging cold shot up Elara’s arm, followed by a rush of pure white heat. She gasped. Elara twitched, trying to wrench her arm free, surprised when the Volva’s frail hands held her with the strength of a warrior.
“You hold many gifts, child. It is unlike anything I have ever seen. Foresight. Mind-bending. Shape-shifting. Veil-walking. And at least three others. Thought they lay buried under your grief. It will take time to harness them all.”